2014.01.14 - A Species Of Their Own
Days of rain, warm and cold. An unseasonably warm fog lies across the city, where cold concrete and steel meet warm air meets colder air. It's a strange sort of weather, but it's a perfect mood-set for the work that is being done behind closed door, behind white-washed walls. There is a small clump of men surrounding a table, with a little bit of high-tech looking gadgetry set back. Discussions have begun, albeit quietly (assuming the god that is in the door can't hear their talk!), and it doesn't sound promising. When a voice raises, it's immediately 'shushed' down with nervous looks given around, and the last one to look-- "Really," Loki steps into the room, leaving the door open behind him, "You can't even do that." Softly spoken words carry the force of steel beneath it. His expression is one of somber seriousness as he takes those few heartbeats with which to cross the room. The moment he arrives within their little group, there's an immediate shift of his face, a look which may either herald a happy moment or one not so much. "Gentlemen... then tell me what it is you require. I have, even now, begun to get you your processed gold. If you need a lab in which to form your materials, then that is what you will have." The appearance of the green and gold dressed god certainly does make for worried looks thrown back and forth. And the lack of ability to effectively read the man makes for even more concern. Particularly when the job may mean a life. (They've heard stories!) But, the payout if successful more than makes up for the stress of the project. (Keys to Australia? Sure, thank you. A little help with the squatters, please?) Turning about the room, Loki looks, while not satisfied, tolerant of the spartan surroundings. Always on the move, and never running only one operation. "Don't be too hard on them, dear. Humans are such simple creatures. Lost within their own routines, the invisible prisons they construct around themselves which they consider to be having a life." The voice of duplicity which drifts along behind the Asgardian belongs to the unashamedly blue form of Mystique, 'dressed' in figure-hugging white leathers that are as much a part of her as her own skin. Being morphic certainly helps cut down on wardrobe costs. The lone mutant comes to stand beside Loki, playing two fingertips up the back of his shoulder to rest upon the top of his arm with a typical smirk of idle amusement in place. "Like misguided children, they do not know any better." This lot should be glad they've got Loki lording over them, Raven wouldn't have had even this much patience in dealing with them. "If they require proper motivation, I can demonstrate several methods useful when dealing with their kind." It's quite possibly the best expression a human can make when seeing -the- blue-skinned mutant standing next to the 'boss'. It's a cross between a 'WTF' and an 'OMG', with a bit of 'we're screwed' stirred into the mix. There's something, however, about the fact that scientists aren't a dime-a-dozen that gives one of the men the courage to speak. "Prince Loki, I'm just not sure how--" There's a dismissive wave in the air between Loki and the man, a 'who cares' sort of attitude that is carried with it when he says, "That's your job, -doctor-." Loki smiles theatrically beneficiently towards one of the underlings and gestures with that still open hand, 'Or it will be his." And I don't threaten. Nodding at Mystique's words, brows do rise at the touch of a hand upon him, but it's accepted. Particularly with those words. All of them. Turning about, effectively shutting down the conversation with the scientists, there's something of a gleam in those blue eyes of his, an intensity as he grabs hold of words, of concepts and tries to work out how new information can be used to best advantage. HIS best advantage. "Tell me. I had a pleasant chat with a man in the street one day. Was quite enligtening. Said that you mortals were now in different categories. Human and..." He pauses to consider, though he remembers the words quite well, "Mutant. Homo novus, he'd called them." As for motivation, however, a benign smile creeps up to take residence, "Oh, I know plenty of ways. Ways that were quite familiar a thousand years ago but sadly forgotten." And there that blue hand stays, because that's how Mystique will have it. She will not be brushed away or disregarded so easily, a never-ending presence within this growing machine. She is here now. She will not be forgotten. Ever. 'Tell me.' Blank golden eyes take their time in settling upon bright blue ones, idle amusement drifting toward idle curiosity as though everything in the world around her happens to be beneath her. Except, perhaps, the being now standing beside her. When 'Homo novus' is mentioned, that expression sours slightly. "Your choice of company is a curious matter," she lilts. "I know only one man who uses that label. He is wrong. Mutant, metahuman, X-gene positive, freaks, abominations, there is a new word for my species every day. Some believe us to be a byproduct of nuclear fallout. Some even think of us as having extra-terrestrial origins. In actuality, we have existed for a very long time. Referring to us as 'new' is incorrect, we are superior. We always have been, and we always will be." Pausing momentarily for a more wicked glint to filter into her blank yellow stare, she adds "Referring to me as being mortal is not entirely accurate, either. Soon enough I shall witness the fall of another great, inspirational country that crumbles beneath its own weight, as others have before it. Many of which have been forgotten, as well." Loki watches Mystique as she explains; studies her every twitch, each nuance of a recited word, and smiles. "A new race that lives beside the mortals. I knew there was some difference in those who attempted to stop me." Attempted. Looking back at the men working on his project, he inclines his head in understanding. "I see. And do these 'abominations' have a leader? There are always those who rise to fill that space." That one man in a hundred. Though now, Mystique's claim to being less than mortal (he won't go so far as 'immortality') causes his brows to rise once again. "Really." Loki's not looking at her as genetic test subject, however. There's a slightly different sort of gleam in those eyes. "I see," comes slowly. "And how many years have you on this pale, fragile realm, Mystique?" It's a soft sound, the tenor of his voice as he turns, but there is that hint of a creature that is ready to pounce that lies just underneath. For good or ill, Loki is not one that can truly be divined as to his method or reasoning. "How many do you believe lie before you?" "Many have tried," Mystique replies while drifting that blue hand away from a leathered Asgardian shoulder. "None have succeeded. The one whom you have spoken to, Magneto, tries to claim such a title for himself. Another is often in opposition of Erik's attempts, though not desiring it for himself." That she doesn't see it happening because of how radically different every mutant is, and that they all want something other than what everyone else wants, she doesn't bother to admit to. That would make them look every bit as much as children as the humans they are destined to replace, even if they are a younger breed as a whole. How many years? Frankly, it's not a question which is easily answered. "Long enough to have forgotten the score," she says, though whether she's side-stepping the matter or being honest is by no means obvious. "As for looking forward, I see no end in sight. You now understand my powers." Enough to manipulate them as he pleases, in fact. "I can use them to remain eternally young. Or old. Or whatever I feel like being." Shapeshifters can be a hearty, resilient lot. It's information he didn't have before this moment, and that both annoys Loki and pleases him to no end. The battle for those particular emotions shows in his eyes, those true windows to the chaotic soul that the Prince of Asgard possesses. "Magneto. Erik." Now, he places the two names together, and there is more research to be done. If homo novus truly isn't novus, then there should be some record of it on... Damn. It. All. Thing is, the source of most of Loki's annoyance is that it wasn't anywhere in his books. And if they omit something like that regarding the Realm of Midgard, what else are they omitting? "So there are people fighting. I will assume the tired, tragic story of old," and here, Loki rolls his hand, rolls his eyes, and sounds as if he recites those tired lectures learned in years past. "Good versus evil. Freedom and servitude." Shaking his head, he looks away and back to the work on the table, "When will they learn that servitude is freedom? There is no shame in being what you are." Clearing his throat, the god's manner and mien completely shifts, and his voice lowers as it sounds that 'commanding' tone. Decisions, apparently, have been reached and Mystique is part of it all. "Targets. I want targets. Something or someone, someones, that will destabilize the mortal population. Human population. You seem to know a great deal more on this subject than anyone else I have met." "Oh no, quite the contrary," Mystique intervenes with something feigning a look of surprise. "There is no good nor evil at play, there are only those strong and willing enough to take a stand and those that are not. While some amounts of slavery have occurred over the decades, that is not why I am a part of this battle." She simply wants them -gone.- Like an infestation of roaches. Targets. Now..they're getting somewhere. "Simple," she replies without hesitation. "If chaos is your poison of choice, there are numerous options. World leaders, religious figureheads, even destroying certain monuments will shake them to their cores. They tend to invest way too much faith into symbolism. Buildings, statues, -bridges,- topple any number of these and they, too, will fall apart with grief and despair. Target one of their decaying, over-run power plants and they will be left in darkness for years. They are not prepared for an actual disaster." "So," she adds with a devious grin. "Where shall we start?" Category:Log